


Five times

by DeVereWinterton



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Canon Compliant, Derriere is a fun word, F/M, Five Times, Fluff and Smut, Happy Birthday!, IT WAS AN ACCIDENT, Jack's hands are a gift, Just five times, So is Phryne wearing trousers, for the most part anyway, no +1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-13 06:06:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16011833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeVereWinterton/pseuds/DeVereWinterton
Summary: The first time Jack Robinson touches Phryne Fisher’s derrière, it is entirely accidental.





	Five times

**Author's Note:**

  * For [221A_brina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/221A_brina/gifts).



> I wrote this because Jack's hands and Phryne's arse are superpowers that have to be combined in order to save the Phrackiverse. 
> 
> Also, it’s Aubrina’s birthday and that alone is enough reason for a fic! Thanks to Scruggzi for being my sweet beta. All remaining mistakes are obviously mine.

 

The first time Jack Robinson touches Phryne Fisher’s derrière, it is entirely accidental. He has just come straight from the courthouse after divorcing his wife, and is being thrust into the hustle and bustle of Guy Stanley’s engagement party. A fast crowd if ever there was one.

His emotions are in turmoil; he feels raw and exposed, his nerves are frayed.

The moment he rounds the corner, he spots her as she walks towards him, and his mouth is suddenly as dry as the Valley of the Kings. He barely registers a word she says, even though he is sure it has to do with the case, but the sight of her is short circuiting every synapse and impulse in his brain.

The only persistent - and highly inappropriate - thought that manages to push through the haze is the question of whether or not the sheer material covering her belly will rip if he pulls it hard enough between his hands.

When she strokes the lapels on the front of his jacket, he knows he is done for and he mutely follows her when she guides him out of the hallway and towards the grand staircase of the mansion.

_What was that about a costume?_

There is a bit of a crowd gathered near the bottom of the stairs, and his hand hovers protectively near Miss Fisher’s back as she guides him through the throng of well-dressed guests. His fingers itch from wanting to reach out and stroke the tantalizing expanse of her exposed lower back, and twitch with the effort of keeping himself in check.

He is caught completely unawares when she ascends the first step of the staircase and has to side-step to allow one of the elderly guests to descend.

His outstretched hand makes the barest and briefest contact with the curve of one shapely buttock. Once he realises he is lingering inappropriately, he quickly moves it away as if burned.

Burned, indeed. Burned into every fibre of his being. He doubts he will soon forget the warmth of her skin, tangible through the thin material of her flimsy skirt, or the way the round shape of her arse cheek almost filled his palm, if only briefly.

He misses the ghost of a smile on her lips as she continues to walk up the stairs.

However, there is no possibility of her missing the bobbing of his Adam’s apple, the desire evident in his eyes when she attempts to divest him of his tie and Lord only knows what else.

He drops heavily into a nearby chair when she closes the bedroom door behind her, and stares at his hands. His fingertips still tingle with the memory of that intimate touch, and will for a long time to come.

 

***

 

The second time it happens, Jack doesn’t actually touch her, but he’s not so sure the alternative is any better.

They are chasing a suspect on foot through the slums of Melbourne, where the streets are narrow and the alleys are barely passable, the houses decrepit. Not for the first time he is amazed at her stamina as she runs alongside him. Briefly, he wonders what kind of exercise keeps her in such shape, then quickly shakes his head when he realises that this is a dangerous train of thought. She resembles a glorious whirlwind of reds and creams as her unfastened maroon coat billows behind her on the wind like a cape.

He can only imagine that, where she looks like an exotic bird, he must look like some sort of permanently exhausted pigeon.

When their suspect rounds a particularly sharp corner near a large brick building, they lose sight of him. Phryne lets out a frustrated huff as he puts his hands on his knees and leans forward to catch his breath.

In retrospect, he should have expected that she would consider entering through the bolted front door of the restored warehouse too mundane and time-consuming ( _“Really, no offense intended Jack, but breaking this door down could take hours.”_ ). She had wandered off to only God knew where - presumably to find her own way in - as he continued hitting the door with his shoulder, trying to break it down with brute force.

He is still rubbing his sore shoulder by the time he reaches the fourth floor, having cleared the previous ones and breathing heavily. He arrives there just in time to see her jumping down from the windowsill of one of the large windows.

_How in the… ?_

He knows better than to ask and manages to keep a neutral expression, but he is certain that there are questions written in his eyes when she gives him a small, smug, satisfied smirk.

“Well, after a little chat with the workmen who were painting the outside of the building, they offered me the convenience of… a lift,” she informs him by means of explanation to her sudden appearance on the top floor of the building as she walks up to him whilst brushing some dust from her coat.

_Ah._

He had spotted the scaffolding, he just hadn't thought much of it.

“I see.”

She turns away from him to approach the ladder on the far side of the large space, which leads into the attic.

He coughs awkwardly.

“Miss Fisher?”

“Yes, Jack?” She turns around halfway, an inquisitive eyebrow raised.

“There’s uh… that is to say… you’ve got something… on your uh--” he stammers, damning himself for his incompetent stuttering. He sounds like bloody Collins.

He has no idea what possesses him to do so, but as he points vaguely in the direction of her lower half, his hand makes a circular motion, as if depicting a crescent moon. He knows he is blushing a shade of red that’s probably a good match for her coat.

His acute mortification reaches an all time high (or low) when her eyebrow raises once more, but the positively feral smile that accompanies it when she follows first the movement of his hand, and then his gaze makes his stomach drop to the floor.

There is a very clear white, dusty handprint on her mantle, and Jack knows, for a fact, that it is located right on top of her very firm bottom.

“Oh! That must have been from when one of the men tried to steady me. Do you know, I have no head for heights, Inspector,” she says as she dusts off her coat.

As she closes the distance between them, she smooths his tie and brushes some dirt from the door off of his right shoulder. Her hand lingers, but he doesn’t admonish her.

“You don’t?” he asks, and his voice croaks even as it rumbles deep within his chest.

She leans in close to murmur in his ear and he is sure he has stopped breathing by this point, even though his lungs are burning from exertion and repressed arousal.

“No. And he was well over six feet tall.”

As she ascends the ladder to the attic before him, he pointedly stares at his worn brown leather shoes.

 

***

 

The third time, Jack finds himself with quite a handful and he will swear to his dying day that it is an accident.

He doesn't like to flatter himself into thinking that Phryne might think of him in _that_ way, but he can’t shake the feeling that she appears to be intrigued by his undercover persona, Archie Jones.

The way her face lights up like a Christmas tree when he begs her forces his mind down a very dark, treacherous and debauched path. His imagination is only all too happy to provide him with other scenarios in which he might also please her by begging, and thereby please himself.

Archie Jones is - awful taste in clothing aside - a rather carefree fellow, and when she informs him that she looks for joy in all the dark places, he is utterly embarrassed by the faint stirring in his loins.

When she wraps her clever little tongue around his name, _“Ar-chie”_ , he wants to suck her tongue into his mouth.

He is just Jack, however, when she loses her balance on the countertop when reaching for the back of the cabinet at the radio station.

He is just Jack when he steadies her by holding her voluptuous derrière in his large palms.

There is no pretense, no artifice, no alias.

He is sick to the back teeth of noble abstinence when he realises just how rapidly he is hardening inside his trousers.

The pressure of her weight in his hands is slight, as she is mostly holding herself up, but his fingers press unmistakably into the soft flesh of her buttocks. He’s throbbing almost painfully when he wonders if she is this soft everywhere else.

When she tells him to steady her anytime, _"Inspectorrr",_ the breathless running of her R’s makes him want to run his hands all over her arse.

 

***

 

The fourth time is decidedly _not_ an accident - because how can it be when a man has both of his hands on a woman’s behind? - but he’s not entirely sure how he came to be here.

He is already out the door of her parlour and on his way to grab his hat and coat when he hears her cry out.

“Jack, wait!”

He pauses as he reaches for his hat, turning around empty-handed to find her swiftly walking up to him. Even though he has a little trouble focusing, he notices the slight bounce of her small breasts underneath the seafoam-green gown she’s wearing. The intricate beadwork of the top layer of her dress rustles as she moves to reach him.

The despair in her eyes is what proves to be his undoing.

There is nothing proper about their first kiss. He pushes her up against her front door with a swiftness that surprises them both and has her gasping into his mouth as he presses himself close. His head is spinning, but he attributes it to the fact that everything about this infuriating woman is heady and arousing.

She will ruin him.

His lips part and his tongue comes out to slip into her mouth. She groans when she sucks greedily at his tongue and he pushes the unmistakable evidence of his arousal between her thighs. His hands, meanwhile, find purchase squeezing and kneading her buttocks as she wraps one shapely leg around his waist so their hips can rut against each other.

Her hands busy themselves as her fingers fumble with the fastenings of his trousers. She whimpers when she is unsuccessful in releasing him from his constraining confines, and cups his aching cock through his trousers instead.

Jack pulls his lips away with a gasp. She’s panting, and he is dragging his lips along her jaw, his movements slurred. His kisses become sloppy as he presses his open mouth against her skin.

Before he loses consciousness and slumps heavily against her, he’s aware of an unfamiliar male voice, calling out Phryne’s name in the distance.

He awakes the next morning in Phryne Fisher’s bed with a raging erection and only a vague recollection of a very inspired dream.

His palms are sweaty.

 

***

 

The fifth (but likely not the last) time, she barely acknowledges it when his slightly callused hands stroke the luscious, damp globes of her arse. To be fair, they’re both naked and he is, in fact, inside her, so she can’t really be blamed for that. She’s also coming - gloriously - around his cock as he takes her hard and fast from behind, and it only takes a few more deep strokes before he loses all sense of reality. He’s pretty sure he shouts some unintelligible obscenities when he spends himself deep inside of her.

It could be mere seconds, or minutes, or hours later when he grabs the duvet to cover the both of them and shield them from the cold of London winter, but time has become an irrelevant concept. Jack Robinson is living in the moment for the first time in his life.

He suspects the habits of the woman currently snuggled up against his side are rubbing off on him. He wraps his arm around her and pulls her closer into his warm embrace.

She sighs.

His heart flutters.

“Why did we wait so long to do this?” he asks no one in particular, his voice hoarse.

He chuckles when he hears her mutter something against his chest that sounds remarkably like ‘stubborn’ and ‘idiot’. Her fingers are playing with his sparse chest hair and tracing the tempting trail leading down to his spent cock.

He wants to take those fingers into his mouth, one by one, and wet them before she wraps them around his throbbing manhood.

Not now. Next time.

“I have something of a confession to make, Miss Fisher.”

“Oh?” She sounds intrigued, the promise of yet another mystery to solve too tantalizing, too tempting to resist. She raises her head from where it has been lying on his chest, and when her eyes meet his they are full of mischief.

Her eyes darken perceptibly when his hands move down her back to cup her buttocks. She practically mewls in delight when he pulls her on top of him, his already rapidly hardening cock nudging at her entrance.

“Yes,” he groans when she starts to grind herself against his length, and in this moment he is not sure if he is answering her question or merely encouraging her to continue her maddening motions. “I have admired your arse for months. Maybe even a year.”

Her responding smile is just as feral as it was months ago in the warehouse, more so, if at all possible.

“I know. You weren’t exactly _subtle_ ,” she says as she grabs hold of his engorged penis and lines it up with her soaking slit.

“You _knew_?” he chokes out as she slowly begins to slide down on his length, taking him inside until he is fully seated, her buttocks resting in his lap.

“ _Mmm_ , yes. The question is, Inspector… what are you going to do about it?”

He places his large hands on her arse, squeezes, and proceeds to show her, over and over again.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The ‘painters on the outside of the building - scene’ and Phryne’s responses are taken from an episode of the show ‘Are you being served?’, where a Mr. Wilberforce Clayborne Humphries uses the same trick to get into work.


End file.
